Page 4 of A Billionaire Gentleman

Tears burnedmy eyes as my hands slammed into the door, pushing it open with enough force that, if someone had been on the other side, they would’ve gotten hurt. Normally, that would’ve made me apologize profusely, even if no one was there, but I couldn’t find it in me to care right now. Even the blast of Vegas heat that hit me barely registered.

I wasn’t naïve or sheltered – far from it – but this many sleazebags in a row had me doubting the entire human race. Halfway to the bus stop, I began to slow. I was already sweating, but that didn’t mean I had to show up to my interview smelling as slimy as I felt. Why was it, whenever I talked to a man, I felt like I needed a thirty-minute scalding shower afterward just to get the filth off me? I’d had men staring at me since I hit puberty, and I did meanmen, not only boys. I should’ve been used to it by now.

Someone on the other side of the street cat called as I ducked into the bus shelter, the shade offering me little in the way of relief from the setting sun. I plucked at the front of my blouse, cursing my decision to wear it. I’d thought it made me look older, more responsible, the way a responsible mother should look, but all it had done was ensure that not a single one of the three lawyers I’d talked to today had looked any further than my chest, as if wondering if the buttons were going to pop off and give them a show.

I brushed at my cheeks to get rid of the couple tears that had escaped, grateful that I hadn’t bothered with much in the way of makeup today. I was twenty-four but had one of those faces where heavy makeup just made me look like I was a kid playing dress-up. Well, unless my asshole ex-husband had something to say about it. According to him, I looked like a whore with makeup and frumpy without it.

No, I told myself firmly. I was not going to think about him. This wasn’t about revenge or getting the better of him. This was about our son.Myson. I had to get Dallas back, but I was starting to feel like all I was really doing was repeatedly running headfirst into a brick wall.

I’d been barely nineteen when I met Mead, a college student, and then I’d gotten pregnant a few weeks before I turned twenty. Without much in the way of options, I’d dropped out and gotten married. Mead had wanted me to stay home with the baby, and I’d been happy to do it. He made the money, kept the money, and decided what to do with the money. I hadn’t really let it bother me until I finally left him and realized that I literally had nothing but the clothes on my back.

My face burned with embarrassment as the series of events that had followed that decision played themselves out in my memory. I looked down, sure if anyone looked at me, they’d be able to read it all on my face. I still couldn’t quite process just how badly I’d messed up my life when I’d thought all of my decisions had been smart ones.

When the bus pulled up, my stomach twisted, and it had less to do with the fact that I’d barely eaten today and more to do with the attorney ad on the side of the bus. I’d just come from his office, and the meeting had gone the same way as the other two had, but he’d been less subtle about it.

I couldn’t afford anyone better, though. I’d managed to get a part-time job at a fast-food chain, and that had helped me save enough to put down a deposit on an apartment, so I could get out of the halfway house where I’d been living for the last few weeks. A place of my own had been my first priority since all of my visits with Dallas were supervised, and I wouldn’t have my son visiting me there.

Now that I had a place, sparse as it was, the next thing I needed was a lawyer to fight for joint custody at the very least. But to do that, I needed a half-decent attorney and that cost money.

I sat behind the driver without looking at any of the other passengers. Chances were, most of them were decent people using city transportation like me, but even people who looked decent on the outside could be far from that inside.

Like the guy advertising on the side of this bus.

I’d wanted to slap him when he’d walked around his desk to put his hand on my shoulder and leaned down to whisper in my ear that he’d happily find an arrangement that would allow him to take on my case, pro bono. The first lawyer I’d gone to had referred to it as “extra company.” The second had used the phrase “whatever you’re able to pay…or trade.” This one, after calling it “an arrangement” had proceeded to give a few lewd examples before I’d shoved the chair back and practically ran from the office.

He’d been laughing as the door slammed shut behind me.

Tears threatened again, and I rolled my eyes to look up at the ceiling of the bus, blinking rapidly to keep the damn things from falling. I didn’t remember where I’d learned that trick, but it’d come in handy more than once, and not just with Mead.

I took slow, deep breaths. My interview was a little over thirteen miles from the bus stop, and I needed to pull myself together before I got there. I was grateful that I had a job at all, but I needed a better one. Better as in higher pay.

I’d already accepted that I wasn’t going to get much of an improvement in atmosphere. If I hadn’t been terrified of losing my son forever, I might’ve cared about the career path I’d never get back to, but I just didn’t have the energy for more than one focus at the moment.

By the time I reached my stop, I was composed enough to keep my head up as I exited the bus and headed down the sidewalk to the Diamond Star Lounge. Part club, part restaurant, it boasted ‘showgirls’ rather than strippers, but still wasn’t the classiest of places. I didn’t possess the skills to get hired as a legitimate showgirl, and I definitely didn’t have the time to learn, even if I thought I probably could. They promised no nudity, though, and that was enough for me.

Since they were only hiring dancers at the moment, I didn’t have the opportunity to interview for hostess, server, or bartender, but if I got this job, I could always keep an eye out for other positions as they became available. Honestly, this place might be the best for me, anyway. Not high-class enough to worry about my past or my ex, and not low class enough for my ex to use against me if he found out about it.

I kept telling myself all of this as I opened the door and walked inside. It wasn’t as dark as I’d expected, but it was still early in the evening. I supposed it had its own version of dinner lighting at some point. If I was lucky, I’d find out.

“Here about the job?”

A tall guy who looked to be in his mid-forties came toward me. Dark eyes, hair that had a reddish tone to it, and a pleasant, if forgettable, face. I would’ve thought he’d be the sort of person who’d be good to work with if I hadn’t learned at a young age that what a person looked like didn’t necessarily reflect what was on the inside.

“Is it still available?” I asked, my hold on my purse strap tightening. It was the only tell I still had, the only indicator of how my gut was churning, this need to have something to hold onto when anxiety clawed at my insides.

“It is.” He held out a hand. “Sanders Flannery.”

I shook his hand, appreciating that he didn’t linger or take this as an opening to get more…familiar. It was completely, and surprisingly, professional. “Sofi Stafford.”

“Let’s sit while we talk,” he said, motioning toward the bar.

A couple men were at the far end, but they didn’t even look at us as we sat down, thoroughly engrossed in whatever was on the television. About two dozen people were scattered around the room, some talking to each other, some watching the dancer who’d just come on stage. The slot machines, however, were full.

“Dinner and a show starts a little later on Fridays and Saturdays,” he said. “We’re open every day, noon to four – that’s am not p.m. Dancers’ schedules rotate based on seniority. That means you pretty much don’t have a say in your schedule unless it’s an emergency.” He gave me a pointed look. “And I’m the one who decides if it’s an emergency.”

I nodded, folding my hands in my lap. I didn’t care when I worked as long as I worked. I’d worry about schedules and things like that when I had my little boy back.

“Some women only want a job during specific hours,” he said wryly. “You’re not one of those, are you?”

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